


The Chessboard

by EinahSirro



Series: Bishop Takes Knight [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Spooks | MI-5
Genre: Angst, Bombings, Bondage, Dubious Consent, Light BDSM, M/M, Smut, Spies, Stockholm Syndrome, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-28 21:09:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5105822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EinahSirro/pseuds/EinahSirro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucas North and John Watson have been "processed out" of captivity. But the chains, though invisible, are still there. Mischa has Lucas. Lucas has John. John has doubts. But walking away is impossible, partly because John's got feelings. Partly because Lucas has armed guards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Departures

At the Departures Gate, the security guards took a long look at Bill Watt’s passport. He was a neat, tidy looking fellow, with dark blond hair, honest but tired eyes, and a battered face. John gave an apologetic smile. “Never watch football in an Irish pub in Russia.”

The guards smirked and glanced at each other, and waved him through. Then came a Jewish family with three adolescent children and a massive amount of baggage. 

Then came an old grandmother. 

Then came two businessmen with a fair amount of sporting gear. 

Then came a pale, handsome but seedy looking fellow in black, with rather greasy dark hair that fell in his eyes. Those eyes darted about constantly. It was the kind of face to make security guards uneasy, and he was pulled aside for extra searching with the wand, but nothing untoward was discovered. John Bateman was waved through.

The tidy looking man went to the men’s room and a few moments later, the rather suspect looking fellow also entered.

John was washing his face in the sink, reveling in the cold water, and the measure of relief it offered his swelling eye, his split lip, the bruises on his cheekbone.

Lucas hovered, unable to resist bringing his fingers up and getting in the way of John’s self-assessment.

“Did he—did he do anything besides this?” Lucas asked quietly, eyes checking to see that the restroom was empty.

“No,” John said shortly, applying a wet paper towel to his eye. “He made a few offers, though. Nothing very tempting.”

Lucas exhaled in a manner that suggested a snorting bull. “Fucker.”

“Yeah. Well. Not anymore. Uhm…” John looked at Lucas in the mirror with the one eye that was not covered by the towel. “You might have over-reacted just a touch.”

“What, that last one in the head?” Lucas asked.

John sighed.

Lucas shook his head. “No, listen, don’t lay awake at night thinking about Sergei. Mischa wanted him dead, he let me know days ago. And I knew I’d be involved. He gave you to me and then he let Sergei take you. He knew exactly what would happen. He orchestrated it every inch of the way.”

John said, “Your English has gotten very fluent in the last few days.”

Lucas put his hands on John’s shoulders gently and smelled his hair. “Yeah, I’m a quick study.”

John turned in his hands to face him, but Lucas didn’t back up. Instead he loomed over John, his eyes still going from bruise to bruise as if plotting to bring Sergei back to life with electricity and then kill him again.

“Who are you?” John asked quietly.

Lucas kept his hands on John’s shoulders. “I’m the man you need to stay with.”

“But who are you?”

“I’m the man whose spare shoes you’re wearing.” Lucas said, wondering if even that, Mischa had foreseen. _There is a small bag in the trunk so that you are not traveling without luggage. You know that makes the pilots nervous these days._

Because John had been barefoot when he was snatched out of Lucas’s rooms.

And Lucas was grateful that Sergei had not beaten John’s feet. That caused blood clots that often killed the victim. Anton was famous for it. Much as he’d hated Sergei, Lucas still felt a faint tickle of relief that it was not Anton who’d take his prize.

John was still staring at him somberly. “But who are you?” He whispered, one more time.

Lucas put his forehead to John’s gently. “I don’t even know,” he answered, just as softly.

 

* * * 

 

Their seats on the plane were side by side, First Class. Non-stop to Heathrow, my God… Lucas settled into his seat and thought once again that you had to hand it to Mischa: he gave rewards freely. Question a fellow countryman: get keys. Waterboard him: get a phone. Move a body: get a flatscreen. Rape a prisoner: get a gun. Kill an inconvenient colleague: get first class tickets … home.

He wondered what was next: blow up a convoy of visiting diplomats, get a condo with washer and dryer?

Kidnap the Prime Minister, get a Lexus?

As soon as they reached cruising level, the stewardess brought drinks, and both John and Lucas took one as if it were a Holy Sacrament. 

Eventually, John said, “I left my phone in Russia.”

“Is that a song?” Lucas asked, and John shook his head and grinned.

“What happens in Russia stays in Russia,” Lucas told him.

John ignored him.

“In Russia, phone leaves you.” Lucas added.

“Just stop,” John sighed, chuckling again. “God, I don’t believe my life.”

“You used to limp,” Lucas noted suddenly. “When I met you, you had a limp.”

John tilted his head and stared at Lucas. “And you had an accent.”

“Oh, touché,” Lucas acknowledged, and the stewardess came to see if they wanted another drink. They did. They also got a baggie of ice for John’s eye.


	2. "Safe" House

When they landed at Heathrow, it was early morning of the next day. The flight was long and the time change heading west was dramatic. They’d had a smooth flight and slept fairly well, considering. 

They disembarked at last, and Lucas was uneasy to find a chauffeur waiting for them with a sign that said _John Bateman/Bill Watts_ just beyond Customs. He hid his displeasure from John, however. It could only be Mischa’s orders, so they followed him obediently to a gray Passat, very unobtrusive, and slid into the backseat. 

As the driver, who was not particularly communicative, drove away from the tangled mess of traffic that was Arrivals, John was looking appreciatively out the windows. Home! That gray sky was beautiful… he hadn’t been home in months. One short visit when the team had been in Kuwait, accepting work with refugees from the ISIS controlled areas of Iraq. Other than that… he’d been away from home quite a lot, really, in the last few years, John mused.

At his side, Lucas was quietly having a meltdown. This was his first glimpse of London in eight years. When he’d left here, he’d had a wife. Well, an estranged wife. He’d had a career. He was barely 30, still cocky… his eyes were hungrily drinking in the skyline, the city, and the newer models of automobiles. Anything that seemed unchanged was shocking, and anything that had changed was shocking too, until the whole experience of staring out the window became a drive through the Matrix.

As if none of it were actually real. It’s just what you used to think was real. _I used to eat there. Really good noodles._

Soon they were in the West End.

Lucas was chewing on his thumb, and John finally noticed his slumped and still appearance, and the darting eyes.

“Hey,” he said, reaching over to put a warm hand on Lucas’s thigh. “Tell me.”

Lucas inhaled. “It’s just been a long time,” he said huskily, eyes still glued to the rows of Georgian homes they were now passing, their windows neatly aligned, their brick so blond, their trim so white, the doors so brightly painted in blue or red. All so foreign and yet so familiar.

“How long?”

Lucas cleared his throat. “Eight years.” He said, in a tone that conveyed that he’d really rather not talk more right now.

John squeezed his thigh, and then removed his hand and let Lucas be for now. His brain was processing. Eight years. Eight frightening onion dome tattoos on Lucas’s back. That could not be coincidence.

The Passat pulled up in front of one of the many red doors on one of the many rows of stately brick facades, and the driver parked the car, got out, and opened the door. Lucas emerged from his side, and John went to open the door on his own side, only to realize that it was equipped with some sort of childproof lock that wouldn’t let him escape. 

That seemed a bit ominous, actually. But John smothered his reaction, slid out on Lucas’s side, and stood next to him. The driver took the single carry-on from the boot and led them up the steps to the red door. John let his hand trail on the black iron fence. He was… curious, frankly. 

Had he and Lucas been left to their own devices when they landed, John had been perfectly ready to contact his sister Harry and ask if he and his “friend” could come stay with them for a few days, until he could ascertain what to do next.

But they’d been snapped up immediately, and it seemed very much as if John was still in Russian custody. Was he? Was that even legal?

It crossed John’s mind that he should be able to simply say, “Um, excuse me, I’ll just take the Tube, thanks so much,” and just… walk away.

He could, right? There were no cuffs on him. He was in his own country. He was free.

But he mulled it all over for a moment. He had none of his true identification on him. No cash in his pocket; Lucas had it all. Of course, he was prior military, so his fingerprints were on file. He could regain his own identity easily enough. Access his bank account; he actually had a good bit of savings now. Well, not extravagant, but enough to pay deposit on a flat in a … well, an outlying area, maybe.

But here he was in the upscale West End, docilely going up the steps to a strange door, following the man who’d tortured him and then ravished him. John mentally picked the word “ravished” deliberately. A little more than _seduced_ , a little less than _raped._

The driver opened the door and gestured for them to enter. The foyer was well lit and genteel, with hardwood floors and elegant light fixtures blazing on the neutrally colored walls. After the driver closed and locked the door behind him, he finally looked at them and spoke.

“Welcome home, Lucas North,” he said in Russian-flavored English. “Mischa said to give you the top floor.”

Lucas nodded as if he were expecting that. “Come,” he said, wrapping his arm around John and guiding him to the stairs. They were carpeted. John glanced around and decided, just for now, to go along.

They mounted several flights of stairs. On the top floor they discovered a suite of rooms with high ceilings, thickly carpeted floors, and windows looking out the back rather than the front. Far below them was a patch of a back yard, rather plain, but there was a nice view of the neighborhood. Long, heavy silver-grey curtains covered the windows. The walls were soft blue.

The furnishings were considerably more plush than the office-like offerings of Lucas’s rooms in Stavrapol. Those had been generic rooms, used by prison guards and interrogators when circumstances required a few long nights. But this was a place to live in for a while. There was a leather sectional of the thick and heavy variety, deep and squashy. Fireplace. Mirrors. Rugs. Glass dining table on wrought iron legs, contemporary and not always welcoming to those who preferred the traditional glow of wood. But clean looking. Expensive looking. 

There was even a piece of modern art on the walls, a canvas liberally bestowed with thick layers of oil paint in an inoffensive color palette. John was basically turning in circles, looking around him. Oh, brushed steel refrigerator. Nice. A little forbidding, but overall the suite was an impressive mix of comfort, style, and obvious expense.

The furniture in the bedroom was large, heavy, and rather dark, as were the color choices in carpet, curtains, and bedding. Four poster bed, matching dressers and tables. Very stolid, but comfort was not overlooked. It wasn’t homey, per se, but it was… quite alright, really. 

John kicked off the too-large running shoes, and pulled off the socks, and let his bare feet sink into the thick pile of a rug for the first time in over a month. Then he went looking for where the loo would logically be. 

Lucas went to the kitchen, where ice and liquor would logically be, but it turned out there was an elegant wet bar at the opposite of the living area and back he went to mix two drinks.

His next order of business was to look through drawers in search of a cellphone charger.

John found the spacious restroom, and admired the dirty purple of his swollen eye. The redness phase of his wounds had passed and now there was just the split flesh scabbing over, and the bruises turning deep, sullen colors. He looked down at the red cotton shirt and gray sweats of Lucas’s that he still wore. They were pretty limp and a bit gamey by now. 

Looking around, John decided that if he was indeed still a prisoner of the Russians, he was going to make the best of it. Shucking his clothes on the spot, he turned on the hot water and stepped into the shower.

Lucas brought a drink in to the bathroom and set it temptingly on the counter for John to discover when he emerged, and then he returned to the living room and turned on the large flat screen over the fireplace. Automatically, Lucas turned to the news channels, surfing them one after another to see if any big story was generating a common theme. 

It wasn’t. BBC news was concerned with some aspiring music sensation who had died of a drug overdose in the last 8 hours, and American news was concerned with the candidates for next year’s presidential election, and another workplace shooting. French news was concerned with protests over whatever the French were currently protesting. _Well,_ thought Lucas, _at least one thing hasn’t changed in eight years._ The French could always be counted on to provide a comforting sense of continuity. The Germans were dealing with refugees. No common thread that Lucas could discern. He flipped it back to BBC and let it run, sipping his drink and not minding that it was morning in England. It was afternoon somewhere, and other than on the airplane, he hadn’t had much alcohol in the last eight years.

Not to say he hadn’t had ANY. Russians will always find a way. But it had tasted like it was made from laundry water and distilled in a commode. It probably had been.

He wandered over to his cell, charging on the bar, and noticed that it had lit up already with a message from an unfamiliar number. He thumbed it up.

_Given your execution of Sergei and your dramatic escape with a Sleeper agent, I think it best that I text you from different phones._

Lucas felt something tiptoe up his spine. That sounded like Mischa, and yet not like Mischa.

 _the falcon has landed_ he texted back experimentally.

 _prize in its claws?_ came the reply. Lucas relaxed. It was Mischa.

 _always_ he answered reassuringly. 

_Is good. You two rest. Take a few days. Enjoy home again. You will get a laptop soon, with instructions._

_Yeah, not wasting any time guiding expectations, are we?_ Lucas thought darkly, placing the cell gently back on the bar.

But he was jet-lagged enough not to want to worry about it now. John was coming out of the shower. They were home. They could have a drink and take a nap in that massive bed. Together.


	3. How It Works

When John emerged from the shower, towel around his hips, drink in his hand, Lucas took his turn. John dug through the dresser in the bedroom and found it conveniently stocked with shapeless cotton bottoms of the drawstring variety, and gray cotton t-shirts and white vests, but no pants. John pulled on a set and wandered out of the bedroom to explore further. 

He paused in front of the tv for a bit and watched the news, and then opened the door and went to the landing to look over the balcony and down the stairs. Immediately the driver and another man turned and looked back up at him, moving to stand at the foot of the stairs like a twin pair of Dobermans who do not want to hear of their guest leaving so soon. 

John had a sinking feeling that his window of opportunity to just hop on the tube and be gone had closed. Now he wondered if there had been anyone else at the airport who had discretely accompanied them back, perhaps in a separate car, to discourage any deviation of plans. Had someone pulled up behind them when they’d parked? He thought back. Perhaps. He hadn’t been paying attention.

John went back into the living room and sat down on the leather couch, sinking into it comfortably. But his mind was not as comfortable nor as relieved as it had been.

Lucas finally joined him, dressed in the soft white cotton he, too, had culled from the generic collection in the bedroom. He had shaved and his dark hair was combed back. He looked as close to respectable as he could, but there would always be something vaguely discomfiting about his face. Perhaps it was the way the brows curved down, or the guarded intensity of his large eyes, or the thin, sharp-cut nose and lips. 

Lucas looked down at John’s nearly empty drink and took the glass from him, going over to the bar to make a second drink for each of them. While he was there, he checked his phone for further messages. There was one.

_I think it best you both stay inside today._

Lucas fixed their drinks at the bar, his mind moving over the possibilities. Then he shook his head. It was just too soon to say. Things had happened very quickly over the last month. One minute he was a prisoner slinking about, trying to avoid eye contact with others, working out constantly and guarding his space as best he could. Contemplating where to put his 9th onion dome tattoo, because it looked like he was never leaving.

Then suddenly he was in a conference room being told, very delicately, that he needed to torture one of his own countrymen. Mischa had lured him a little further each time, and each time Lucas had done his best to mitigate or subvert the procedures and the effects. And with each session he was more bound to John. Even those days John was left in solitary, he was unaware that Lucas was usually sitting in the conference room watching over him on the flat-screen. 

Now he was free—well, no. Not really. He was back in London, but he was an asset now, on an invisible leash, but one quite real. Should he make some unauthorized move, it was not unlikely he’d be shot down by someone around him whose only job in the world was to watch his movements. They could make him disappear very easily.

As for John… Lucas wondered what would happen to John if he were to go rogue and get neutralized. Would they go to the trouble of disappearing him, or would they let him go? He knew nothing. He could complain of his treatment while in Russia, but it would only be his word. Lucas hadn’t left any marks on his body. Actually, John might be willing to keep his mouth shut given his own apparent involvement in the murder of a Russian citizen. But Lucas’s fear was that Mischa would make some sort of gruesome example of both of them for other assets who might be in play.

_So for now… have another drink. We are staying in, as directed._ He thought.

He handed John his drink and sat down next to him on the leather couch. The two men looked at each other.

“Now what?” John asked, taking a sip. He picked up the remote and lowered the volume on the tv, and Lucas thought with a smile that this was an oddity of John’s. He couldn’t really concentrate with the television going.

Lucas said, “Now we relax for a couple days. Stay in here, order food, have drinks. Use the bed,” his smile became a little more crooked and his eyes wandered down to John’s neck.

John felt a little answering stir, but he ignored it for a moment. “Am I still…” he trailed off, wondering how to even ask such a strange question. He was a British citizen on British soil who had committed no crime… why would he have to ask what his status was? But clearly he did. Two men downstairs, who looked very much like the type to carry guns, were silently clear that he was not free to leave.

Lucas’s smile faded. “Yes, you are.”

“How does that even work?” John asked him, with a defiant edge to his voice.

Lucas put his arm on the back of the couch and began caressing John’s neck with warm fingers. “Well, it works like this,” he said quietly. “If you try to leave this room, I’ll do my best to stop you. If you get past me, and don’t count on that, John… but if you do, you are unlikely to get past everyone downstairs. The two you see are not the only ones. If by some miracle you do make it to the street, I have a feeling they would rather shoot you in the back than let you go and talk to the British authorities.”

_There. That summed it up pretty well,_ Lucas thought. He didn’t enjoy saying it. He’d had some faint hope in the back of his mind that John wouldn’t want to leave him. But it seemed John had indeed been contemplating the possibility. And this actually made a surprising little spark of anger light up inside Lucas’s throat.

John was staring at him in disbelief. Lucas supposed it wasn’t every day a man stroked your neck lovingly and told you that trying to leave could get you killed. But that was the situation.


	4. Using the Bed

He watched as John’s mouth opened and closed. Clearly he was trying to process this. 

“So—“ he looked around the room at this gilded cage. “Are you … I can see you’re not Lucas Starkov, the Russian. Are you Lucas North, the Brit? Or are you someone else entirely?”

Lucas transferred his fingertips to John’s collarbone and let them wander. “I’m not Russian,” he admitted, but seemed unwilling to commit further. John sat, feeling the fingers rubbing slow circles on his skin, and watching those shadowed blue eyes drinking him in. Somehow this man had managed to get his hands on John’s control buttons, and his touch elicited a response even when John didn’t want it to.

Swallowing more of his drink, John tried to ignore the warm hand toying with the sensitive areas around his neck and shoulders.

“So how did you end up in Russia?” 

Lucas put his drink down and starting using both hands on John, wandering over his chest, rubbing against his nipples, reaching up to caress his ears. He knew already John’s nipples and ears were highly responsive. After a moment, he took John’s half-finished drink from his hand and set it on the coffee table so that he could move in closer and crowd into John’s lap.

“Did you miss me while I was gone?” Lucas asked, leaning in to gently lip one pink ear, breathing on it softly, feeling John shift as he inhaled unsteadily.

“Are you going to answer any of my questions?” John whispered, knowing already he was defeated again. Lucas was maneuvering him onto his back and sinking on top of him to pin him to the couch. One long, thin thigh wedged its way between John’s.

“Did you miss me?” Lucas asked again, and then used the very tip of his tongue to probe John’s ear delicately.

John sighed and let his legs fall apart. Lucas settled between them and began to rotate his hips against the smaller man, nudging their cocks together temptingly.

“What… but what is the point of keeping me here?” John gasped.

Lucas pushed his fingers into the dark blond hair and slowly made tight fists, grinding his hips in a leisurely fashion. There was dark satisfaction in his eyes at John’s increased breathing. He pulled John’s head back carefully and looked into his face for a moment.

“Your job is to make me happy,” Lucas breathed. Then, while John blinked at that, Lucas lowered his lips to John’s throat and began working the flesh in earnest, sucking with abandon, letting his weight push the other man into the leather sofa.

John lay beneath him, aroused but feeling as though this needed some clarification. His hands wandered over Lucas’s tight shoulders, torn between the desire to pull him close and the need to hold him away for a moment and just… clear his head.

“And what is your job,” John ventured, fighting to keep his eyes open. Lucas’s firm hold on his hair made him want to shut his eyes and just feel. But—

“Whatever it needs to be,” Lucas murmured, attacking John’s ear again, more aggressively this time. He wanted to smother John’s questions with kisses, stick his tongue into that mouth and fuck it. But that split lip would hurt, so Lucas kissed around it gently.

“I’m your whore,” John realized. Lucas bit at his neck, clearly growing angry. The pulling on his hair increased. The rougher treatment made John’s stomach heat up and his cock stiffen to full capacity. Damn this, he thought, unable to concentrate. “You… you work for them and I’m… I—“

Lucas finally pulled off his neck to stare down at him and make this sink in. “You belong to me. “ He said bluntly. “You are my prize. I earned you, and they gave you to me, and you’re mine. Is it clear now? Do you have it?” 

John lay there in quandary. This would be hot if it weren’t just utterly outrageous, he mused. Even now his legs were sprawled on either side of this gorgeous, mysterious, controlling man who he knew from experience could make him scream with ecstasy. Or pain, depending. And part of him was as turned on as it could be.

But part of his brain was Dr. John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, a respectable surgeon with education, dignity, and rights.

“I am not yours.” He said firmly, and pushed at Lucas’s chest.

Lucas looked down at him for a moment and then let him go. Got up. Walked away. Took a deep breath. Went into the bedroom, clenching and unclenching his fists. John sat up and straightened his clothing, shifted his throbbing erection around and tried not to be disappointed.

After a moment, he realized that he could hear Lucas opening and shutting drawers in the bedroom, as if he were searching for something. It took a beat for John to come to the conclusion that this was perhaps a bad sign, and this confrontation wasn’t over. He stood up, unsure where to retreat to, and thought about it a few seconds too long. 

Lucas came out of the bedroom with a determined look on his face and strode up to John, slapping a handcuff on one of his wrists and yanking it back behind him to trap his other arm before John could even react. It was fast. He clearly had practice at this.

Lucas tightened them until John let out a cry. “Shit, that’s too tight, that hurts!”

“Does it?” Lucas asked him interestedly, and then marched him into the bedroom and shoved him down face first on the bed. “Do you want them off?”

“Yes!” John said.

Lucas turned back to the dresser and went searching through the drawers. “Oh, here we go.” He muttered to himself. When he returned to the bed, he had several pairs of women’s tights in his hands and a brooding yet pleased expression on his face.

He sat on John’s thighs, and the smaller man turned his head this way and that, trying to see what his attacker was up to behind him, but soon it was easier to feel. Lucas was winding the tights around his wrists above the cuffs. When John was secured with the tights, Lucas removed the handcuffs. 

John breathed a sigh of relief. Lucas rolled him briskly onto his back and sat him up. Then he wrapped his arms around John’s torso from behind and dragged him to the corner of the bed. He brought John’s back against one of the four posts, but facing the center of the bed. Without losing a moment, Lucas then wound a second pair of tights around John’s throat, yanked his head back against the post, and continued winding and tying until John’s neck was secured to the post of the bed. The nylon fabric was stretchy, but Lucas had pulled it tight, high under his jawbone.

“You son of a bitch,” John growled, trying to conceal his panic. He couldn’t even look down.

Lucas stood back, admiring his handiwork. Then he loosened John’s drawstring and tugged at his pants, working them off. John struggled, trying to at least make it difficult. He did, but in the end Lucas won anyway.

The taller man stepped away from the bed and went into the bathroom. He returned with his belt in his hand, wrapped around his fist in that familiar way.

“Now, John, let’s find out what you really like best,” he said with a hot smile. “If you want me to suck your dick till it’s leaking and you’re begging, spread your legs. If you want me to whip your thighs till they’re red and then lay on them and suck your dick till it’s leaking, keep them together.”

John glared up at him rebelliously, and Lucas instantly brought the belt down with a searing crack across his thighs, leaving a burning trail of pain and a red welt. John shouted, squirmed, and opened his legs.

Lucas dropped the belt and grabbed both pillows to lie on. He lay diagonally across the bed, positioned himself comfortably between John’s spread thighs, and draped his arms around John’s hips. Then he sank his face down on the jutting cock that responded no matter how furious the mind above it was. John groaned with pleasure and chagrin both as he felt the lips and mouth engulf him. He couldn’t even look down and watch, his neck was bound so tightly to the post. The tights were right up under his jaw, and even attempting to look down make him feel like he was strangling. The only comfortable position was with his head passively tipped back against the post.

John fought it for a minute, making glottal clicks of frustration, but there was nothing for it. He went limp with surrender, and Lucas hummed on his cock, sucking and swallowing just below John’s line of sight. He could feel the tongue sliding up and down the underside of his shaft very slowly. Lucas loved to do it slowly, to make John give voice. 

“Argh!” was all he could manage, feeling that tongue swirl and probe over his engorged head. “God, why do you do this?!” He finally gasped. His hips were bucking in his captor’s grasp.

Lucas lifted his head, pulling off with a juicy slurp. “I enjoy it, John. I enjoyed beating you, I enjoyed fucking you, I enjoy teasing you…. I just enjoy doing shit to you.” He extracted himself from between John’s legs and backed off the bed. “In fact,” he said conversationally, picking up the belt again.

“No,” John protested, and Lucas stroked his hair attentively.

“Just a couple more. Just to let you know I’m serious,” he said, and wrapped the belt around his fist and lay three more biting slaps on John’s thighs.

John tried not to make any sound, but a huff of protest escaped his throat on each strike.

Lucas then wrapped the belt around John’s waist, securing him more tightly to the post with it, so that he couldn’t even squirm his hips when Lucas tormented him.

Lucas stepped back, looked at him again and nodded. “Yeah, I have to say. I like doing things to you.” He murmured, almost as if to himself. Then he settled back between John’s thighs and entertained himself with licking John’s welts, and fondling his cock and balls in a desultory fashion while his victim struggled uselessly against his bonds.

“You fucking prick,” John gasped, and Lucas answered by sucking on the head of his cock and sliding his fist up and down the shaft just enough to get John to the very brink. Then he stopped and pulled back. John let out another strangled cry of misery.

Lucas came up on his knees to look John in the face. “Are you mine?”

John swallowed, trying to fight with silence.

Lucas pinched both of his nipples, not hard or painfully. Just a nice, firm grip that he didn’t let go of. John’s breathing accelerated yet more. Lucas released the pink flesh and then took them again. And again. Rhythmically. John opened his mouth and closed his eyes, lost in sensation. Lucas moved a little faster and tighter. 

“Don’t you wish I was doing this to your cock?” He breathed in John’s ear, and continued tormenting the pebble-hard nipples.

John answered with a squirm and a huff of air from his nostrils. The nylon still held his head high against the post, but he glared down at Lucas as best he could.

“Want me to suck it down my throat again?” Lucas asked, licking John’s ear.

“Yes,” John admitted, eyes closing again.

“Are you mine?” Lucas asked teasingly. “My prize?”

John bit at his lips and Lucas smiled to himself. “Oh, come on, John. Just say it.”

He lowered himself between the trembling legs and started sucking again. John gave a deep, luxurious groan. Lucas waited till he could feel John’s stomach tensing up. He pulled off again.

“Mine?”

“Argh!! YES!! Yes, yes, fine! I’m yours! Now suck my cock, you bastard!!” John shouted.

Lucas had to chuckle for a moment before he obliged, sucking vigorously and steadily so that John could finally writhe in his bonds and ride out his orgasm with strangled cries of relief.

When John was limp and gasping, Lucas unwound the restraints around his throat, removed the belt around his waist, and rolled him face first on the bed again. His hands were still bound behind him, and, straddling John’s thighs, Lucas found that the tied hands above the naked buttocks were enough of a sight for him to jerk himself off, the tip of his cock invading just slightly between those buttocks while he worked his hand roughly on the shaft. He placed his other hand on the bound wrists, enjoying the feeling of absolute power over John. When he came, he watched his cum fill John’s crack. He had to brace his hand on John’s wrists to keep from falling forward, and held himself there for a few moments, panting with satisfaction.

Eventually, Lucas heaved himself up, gave John a good smack on the buttocks because they were there, and they were naked, and that’s what one does to naked buttocks that are there. 

John jerked at the impromptu spanking and then turned his head to follow Lucas’s trek across the bedroom to the loo.

“Are you going to untie me?” He asked, rather accusingly.

Lucas mopped himself up a bit with a wet flannel and then came and cleaned up John’s arse for him. Thoroughly.

“Should I?” he asked thoughtfully. “Or should I just leave you like this, because in about an hour I’m going to want to start doing things to you again. I don’t like having to wrestle you down each time.”

John heaved a sigh.

“Or I might want a nap,” Lucas added. “I don’t want you getting your arse kicked on the stairs because you got an idea.”

“Alright, look, Lucas. I promise… I promise I will not try to leave today.” John said.

Lucas’s face split into a sharp grin. “That’s a very specific promise,” he noted, running his fingers down John’s spine. John twisted his head around to look out of the corner of his eye.

“Well, it’s the best I can do,” he said, exasperated, and Lucas, still grinning, untied him.


	5. Let It Be

They were taking a nap. John was on top of Lucas, head drooping over the other man’s shoulder and onto the pillow. Lucas had his hands up under John’s shirt. Their legs were entwined. The room was perfectly still but for their breathing. 

Then John’s breathing changed, growing faster, and he twitched. Lucas, never a sound sleeper, as the permanent shadows around his eyes suggested, woke immediately. On top of him, John twitched and gave a throaty murmur. Nightmare, Lucas recognized.

He squeezed his prize tighter. “John, it’s alright.” He stroked the other man’s back firmly. “I’ve got you. It’s over. John!”

With a jerk, John came awake and gave a little moan. Lucas released him so he could roll over onto his back and rub his eyes.

“What was that?” Lucas asked, still blinking sleepily.

“Afghanistan,” John replied huskily.

Lucas regarded him for a moment, and then gave a little smile. “File says Iraq,” he said in his Russian accent.

John gave a little snort, and then sighed. “Did it really?”

“No.”

John looked at him. “What else did you lie about?”

“Pretty much everything,” Lucas admitted.

“Jesus. Is your name even Lucas?”

Lucas looked away for a moment, not evasively but thoughtfully, as if this question made him think of other things.

John watched him, eyebrows raised. “Okay. Tell me one true thing.”

Lucas’s deep eyes came back to him. “You’re mine.”

John looked wary. “That’s the one true thing?”

Lucas’s thin lips curved upward just a touch. “It is,” he assured John.

“Well, fuck me,” John muttered.

“I can do that,” Lucas responded, rolling toward him and grabbing him around the waist.

“What? NO! No, that—that was a _figure of speech!"_ John sputtered, clambering out of the bed. “I need water,” he added, leaving the bedroom.

“Bring me some,” Lucas called.

“Get your own damn water,” John snapped.

Lucas waited on the bed to see if John really meant it. _If he doesn’t bring me water, he really doesn’t like me,_ Lucas thought. Then he rolled his eyes at himself. Might as well pull the petals off a daisy. But he waited, nevertheless. 

A few moments later, John appeared with a glass of cold water and handed it to Lucas with an impatient look on his face. Lucas gave him a warm gaze and drank it.

“Are you hungry?” He asked.

Soon they were rummaging through the kitchen, and found enough fresh vegetables and meat to cobble together a fairly decent meal. Lucas had offered to see about carry-out, but John was happy to have a stocked kitchen to potter around in, so they made do.

They ignored the dining table and ate before the television, in the time-honored manner of men. As their hunger was assuaged and the speed at which they ate slowed down, John glanced over at Lucas.

“So what do I do with the fact that I supposedly belong to a man who has never told me a truth in the whole time I’ve known him?”

Lucas picked at his plate for a long moment. John waited. Then, without looking up, Lucas said, “I grew up in Cumbria, and my father was a minister.”

John waited, holding his breath without realizing it.

“I went to Leeds University.” Lucas added. After another pause, he said, “I’m divorced.”

Finally he looked up at John as if to ask, _Okay?_. John nodded involuntarily, absorbing these tiny tidbits of information, trying to build a new mental file on the man who sat next to him.

Lucas stared at John’s mouth for a minute, wanting to kiss him but aware of the split lip and how tender it must still be. He put his plate on the table and got to his feet. He went into the loo and came out with a bottle of hand lotion.  
“Here,” he said to John, tossing it to him and pulling his shirt over his head and off his arms. “Make yourself useful.”

John found that he was not at all unwilling to sit on Lucas’s hips, on the couch, and rub lotion into his back. In fact, he was eager. It was the first time that Lucas had asked him to do anything to him at all. Usually he was the one “doing things” to John. It seemed to John that this was a mark of… something. Trust? A more equal relationship? 

They put the tv on a radio channel that played songs from the 70s and 80s, and John dedicated himself to exploring Lucas’s back, rubbing his hands over those ominous tattoos, working his way up to the other man’s neck and shoulders. They fell into a peaceful silence. John dug his thumbs into the trapezium muscles and squeezed firmly.

Suddenly the Beatles _Let it Be_ was playing, and both of them felt themselves slow down. They listened to the music, lost in their own thoughts and yet aware of every place they were touching. John’s hands stroked more slowly. Lucas moved one hand over his eyes. John’s hands slowed to a halt and just stayed warm on the other man’s back. He stared down at the man below him and saw him swallow with some difficulty. Neither of them moved, listening. When the song ended, John picked up the remote and turned the tv off, feeling that nothing can really follow _Let It Be_.

After a moment, John got up from the couch, took Lucas’s hand from his eyes and tugged on it. Lucas got up without a word, his eyes red, and they both went into the bedroom. Once there, by the bed, John took his lover’s face in his hands and kissed it over and over, neverminding his split lip. They sank onto the bed in a tangle, and buried their faces in each other’s necks and hair. They gripped each other’s arms and waists urgently, and then moved to different holds as if trying to find all possible ways to crush themselves together.


	6. Now it Begins

Lucas’s laptop arrived the next morning. It wasn’t delivered to the door of the suite. Instead, Mischa texted Lucas and directed him to come down to the first floor and begin _familiarizing himself with the technology._ John, naturally, would be staying on the top floor. That was his new prison cell. Lucas stared at the small screen of his phone and then glanced up at John. “Stay here,” was all he said, before he left.

John gave him a bland look and went back to scrambling his eggs. It was a new day, and yesterday’s promise did not hold. And yet… John added some salt… he hadn’t absolutely made up his mind to run for it just now. Frankly, he was waiting. As long as no one up and killed him, he was in no uncomfortable straights. His pension was steadily being automatically deposited into his bank account. He didn’t have any debt. He was back in his home country, and was certain that he’d only have to get to the tube in order to vanish. His real identity could be re-established quickly. Now that he was out of Russia, John felt relatively certain he could pick up his life again at any moment. Well, almost any moment. 

He wasn’t necessarily as certain where he wanted to be with Lucas. The man was an enigma, and a profoundly exciting and affecting lover. It intrigued John that, even out of bed, he could be so continuously interesting. Dry and laconic one moment, chillingly blunt the next, lightly witty a moment later. Yet always with that underlying intensity, those eyes that were always searching, always recording, always aware.

John scooped his eggs onto a plate. No, he wasn’t quite sure what he wanted at this moment. Well, some tea, how about. He found a shiny red kettle and filled it with water from the tap.

Downstairs, Lucas was being debriefed. His new laptop came with a plethora of protection, passwords, hidden screens, wormholes, backdoors, and other mysterious features. It took a bit, getting him caught up. Technology had indeed developed in the last eight years, and the visuals alone startled him. “Jesus,” he mumbled more than once, learning to negotiate his way through the cyber tunnels that Russia had dug in British security. 

What he learned alarmed him, but he squelched it and reminded himself that the British government, and his former boss, Harry Pearce, had—as far as he could tell—done nothing to get him back in eight years. They must have known what could be happening to him. He wasn’t even the same person anymore.

So would he protect England from the Russians? Sure: one small corner of it. That tidy, respectable little doctor upstairs with the fine, dark blond hair and the black eye, padding around in bare feet, chewing on a piece of buttered toast while he watched the entertainment news with his head tipped inquisitively to one side. Lucas would protect that.

Harry Pearce could protect the rest. He must be good at it: he certainly wouldn’t risk anything to save one operative.

Lucas became aware that his breathing was a bit labored and there was pain in his chest. It was bringing it all back, this toodling around on the laptop, diving into files thought shielded, learning the websites where encoded conversations were taking place in plain sight with no one the wiser. Seeing maps laid out with concealed checkpoints, drop-offs, _les rendez-vous_ , shops and kiosks marked with signals for him to identify and utilize if necessary. Other safe houses. Weak spots in security. Businesses with moles. 

And this was only the beginning. Mischa wouldn’t let a fresh asset in on all his ways and means. No, this was a preliminary layer, the first level of the game where the player checks in, picks a name, loads their weapons, gets a remedial assignment and begins negotiating his way through the simplest version of the labyrinth. 

Lucas was charged with both the excitement of being Back In the Game, and the bitterness of knowing that… if only Harry Pearce had tried, even TRIED to save him… he wouldn’t be willing to play on Mischa’s side.

But after eight years of abandonment, of dehumanization, after bouts of solitary broken up by periods of torture… _Fuck you, Harry. Mischa gave me a watch, a laptop, and John Watson. What did you give me?_

Yet, Lucas wasn’t at peace inside his chest. There was no satisfaction, and he certainly didn’t want revenge. What he really wanted—his mind utterly left his task for a moment. Left the Russian tech agent sitting at his side, methodically showing him the features of the laptop, and the icons that would let him access this or that application or connection. His mind even left the room. 

What Lucas saw in his head was a countryside, rolling green hills, low gray sky, small houses tucked here and there, perhaps the sea… someplace he could hide a prize where no one would ever find it. And he, Lucas, could have it all to himself. No rituals of torture or proofs of loyalty to produce for anyone. Just… freedom.

He inhaled sharply and returned to the room with the tall ceilings and the elegant moldings, the silk curtains hanging down, the thick rugs… and the solid, ominous looking Russian guards lounging like dragons in Eden. “This icon gets me into the employee files of which bank?” He asked, and the tech agent repeated the information calmly. Lucas nodded. _Okay. Okay, yeah. Sure. Great. Fine. Good to know._

“You should familiarize yourself particularly with the other safe-houses in greater London,” the agent remarked, his brown eyes watching Lucas coolly from behind wire glasses. “By this time tomorrow, in fact, it would be good if you knew them all very well. Could find them quickly. Could recognize their doors. Remember to look for the flowers in the window.”

Lucas nodded again. Tomorrow, eh? Not wasting time at all, were we? Mischa must have something going down, and it must—

Suddenly, he sat back, breathing carefully. His instincts were kicking in. This had a rushed feeling to it. Mischa was normally very methodical. _The average Russki, son, don’t take a dump without a plan._ Something had fallen through. Lucas was Plan B, or even Plan C. This wasn’t a test, this was a contingency. And he had to decide… did he go along with it to build Mischa’s trust? Or did he start planning an escape now, right now, RIGHT NOW… with John?

Lucas closed the laptop and gave the tech a nod of thanks. “I’m going back up now. Gotta play with this on my own,” he said, and flashed the sort of smile that doesn’t change the eyes at all. The tech sat back and gave him a knowing look. But no one stopped him as he left the room to mount the stairs.


	7. Literary Allusions

John was staring out a window when Lucas returned, laptop in hand. The two men regarded each other silently. Lucas was struggling within himself. He felt he should explain to John just what their situation was… but he didn’t know how, or if he should. The two problems were, one: Mischa was undoubtedly listening. The entire place was almost certainly bugged, and Lucas wouldn’t be surprised to find there were cameras as well. And two… if John knew how trapped and helpless Lucas actually was… would he lose respect for him? All the progress Lucas had made with his prize had been predicated on John’s belief that his captor was powerful, and that bonding with him was in John’s best interest. But if Lucas was little more than a fellow captive…? Would he sympathize? Would he despise?

Lucas had no idea. And he sat down on the couch, staring over at John thoughtfully, and tried to puzzle it out.

John, for his part, was simply waiting. Waiting for something to happen (something bad, probably.) Waiting for Lucas to explain, to tell him what to expect. He had always been very good about telling John what to expect. But maybe that was just the Russian persona he’d invented. Perhaps Lucas Starkov would lay it out for you, but Lucas North was an entirely different person. It seemed to John already that this was rather the case.

In fact, when he thought about it, John mused, Lucas Starkov disappeared on a flight to Ankara, and when Sergei took John from their rooms and beat him up in that parking garage… it was Lucas North who came striding out on that roof, took one look at the situation, and murdered John’s abductor in cold blood. That was John’s first glimpse of Lucas North.

So John stood by the window and regarded the man on the couch just as hesitantly as Lucas was regarding him. They neither of them knew each other well enough for this.

Suddenly, clarity came to Lucas. He was not free to confide in John, because of who they were, and where they were. If he wanted to be able to rip all these veils away—and at this moment, he did indeed want this—they had to escape. It was as simple as that.

And then again… Lucas chewed on his thumb absent-mindedly… it was not as simple as that after all. He was able to keep John with Mischa’s help. The guards downstairs. This opulent, comfortable cage. These helps were courtesy of the Russian government. Escape with John in tow, run to… where? Scotland? Poland? Macedonia? And there was an excellent chance that Lucas on his own would lose his prize immediately. John would twist his wrist free of Lucas’s grasp the moment they were safe.

“Is there something I should know?” John finally broke the silence.

Lucas looked back at him again, deep in thought. They could not escape before his first assignment, and that first assignment was clearly going to be tomorrow. What’s more, it was clearly going to be a desperate, disorganized shitshow that could possibly get Lucas killed. _Fuck,_ was all he could think.

“Hello?” John asked.

Lucas pondered how he could get across to John that this was not a safe place to talk without Mischa knowing he was issuing a warning.

“Look closely to the seals of my letters,” Lucas finally said.

John tipped his head and his lips parted as if this sentence stirred a memory he could not place. 

“We are at the Sinclair house on Dover street,” Lucas added meaningfully.

John narrowed his eyes and stared at Lucas.

Lucas tried one last prod of John’s literary associations. “Once subdued…”

“…always subdued.” John finished, his voice fading away as he realized.

Lucas let his eyes dart around the room and come back to John meaningfully.

John came slowly and sat down beside Lucas. They looked at each other again, and now both of them wanted to talk more than they had ever wanted to. And both of them were aware that this was not the time, nor the place to do so. But only Lucas was aware that, if tomorrow went badly, this was the last chance they’d get.

On an impulse, Lucas reached out and took John’s hand in his, gently. If only he could get across to John that… what? That he wished things were different?

“Tomorrow I… will have to leave you for a bit,” he began, using as neutral a tone as he could. “If I don’t come back, it’s not because I don’t want to. It’s because… something went wrong. And if that happens—“

John opened his mouth as if he would protest, but Lucas held up his free hand for a moment. 

“If that happens, first, be aware that I – I wanted – I wanted to come back.” He finished lamely. My God, this was hard. “But second… if I don’t… “ Lucas put his mouth to John’s ear as if he were kissing him. “Run,” he breathed.

John inhaled slowly, and nodded almost imperceptibly. 

Lucas kissed him a few more times on the temple for good measure. Then he sat back, feeling that he’d warned John as best he could.

For the rest of the afternoon, they entertained themselves quietly, neither of them wanting to talk. Lucas found a deck of cards in one of the drawers, and they alternated between searching the television channels for something distracting, and playing poker. 

When night came, Lucas led John into the bedroom, and they turned out all the lights. By the dim glow of the streetlamps, they undressed quietly and crawled naked into the bed, under the covers, into each other’s arms. It seemed to Lucas that John knew, had figured it out, had sensed that there was a possibility that this was their last night. 

John seemed willing to pour out everything he had to give. He returned every kiss ardently. He pushed himself into Lucas’s hands, he even battled a bit for supremacy, as if he’d roll Lucas onto his back and lay him out forcefully. He got a handful of that glossy black hair and pulled, sucking on Lucas’s neck like he wanted to leave marks.

Responding to the challenge, Lucas gathered his prize to him and struggled silently with him, attempting to flip John over and tangle his legs and arms up into a helpless knot. After a moment of contest, the only sounds their gasps and imprecations, Lucas dominated, and forced John’s hands behind his back. Once subdued, John arched his back and let his head fall back and let himself be victim and captive again. Let Lucas conquer and dictate, let him restrain and tease and punish. John reveled in it, and Lucas let the taste of victory carry him to new demands and imperatives.

He forced John into submissive positions and then fondled and mouthed him with imperious crudity. Made John expose himself to depredations that carried just a touch of pain. Manhandled his cock with hard fingers, and made him wait and wait for pleasure. Made him beg. Made John kneel, and then spread his knees and lower himself farther. Made John suck him while Lucas leaned over him and ran his fingers between the spread buttocks, teasing his opening with one hand, and holding a handful of hair tightly with the other. Made him continue sucking even as he was writhing from the teasing fingers and aching for more.

Lucas kept at him for as long as he could, wanting to make it last forever. Wanting John to be in agonies of anticipation. Wanting to make sure John never forgot him. When he finally descended to penetrate his captive, Lucas wrapped his belt around John’s neck, looping the end through the buckle, and held onto the loose length. Then, with only the quickest application of lubricant, pushed into John slowly from behind, pulling on the garrote at the same time. He placed his other hand firmly between the bunched muscles of John’s shoulder blades, and rotated his hips, ignoring John’s grunts of resistance and labored breathing.

When he’d finally worked himself all the way in, Lucas rode him punishingly, hand pushing down on his shoulders, belt pulling his head back and up hard.

John knelt, knees far apart, sprawled beneath him in complete surrender, his hands pushing blindly against the sheets as Lucas plunged into him with absolute ownership, nearly strangling him, sending blinding flashes of exquisite torture through him with every thrust. He felt himself open and grow pliant even as his own erection hung down stiff and neglected while Lucas took his own pleasure with brutal but silent focus.

When they had both twisted and strained, and Lucas was ready to explode inside John, he finally draped over him, panting, and reached underneath to grab the turgid flesh. With the other hand he pulled the belt off John’s neck and wrapped his arm around it instead, breathing in John’s ear and yanking him off roughly as he smacked his hips into John’s buttocks, fucking him, riding him, jerking on him, biting on him, digging his fingers into him, savaging John every way he could think of.

Eventually John buckled under the assault, his back sinking down, his hips tilted up in welcome, his thighs trembling, unable to keep up with the frantic pace of the man ramming into him. John buried his face in the pillow and Lucas’s hand worked John’s erection mercilessly and finally John let out an agonized cry into the pillow and shuddered, twisting as if he’d escape the assault.

When John came, Lucas did too, as if he’d been biting his lip nearly off in holding back until his partner came. They froze, locked together, teeth gritted. Lucas seemed as if he’d weld John to his sweaty chest. He gave a few more shuddering thrusts, and John emitted a strained grunt with every slap of Lucas’s hips.

Finally, finally they softened and went limp together, and sank onto the bed, panting. Lucas put his face in John’s hair. Neither of them spoke at all. Later, when they recovered, Lucas curled around John and stroked him with all the tenderness he’d lacked earlier. John stretched out and turned his body into the caresses, as if he’d take anything Lucas issued, be it pain or pleasure. Eventually, they fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The mysterious remarks refer to the 1748 novel CLARISSA, wherein a rake named Lovelace keeps a girl captive in a brothel on Dover street.


	8. Assignment

Lucas was up and dressed early. He had a feeling that when the summons came, he’d do better to shoot out of the house immediately, be on task, be on location, hell, be early. Scout around, do his own reconnaissance. That, and he was desperate to be out, roaming free in London. For the first (and possibly last) time in years. He wanted to feel the cool bite of the autumn London air in his nostrils.

_10am at Location 8 as designated on your laptop_ said Mischa’s text. _wear the watch so you can be identified_

Lucas put the phone in his pocket and strapped on the watch, musing wryly that either Mischa had planned this months ago, or … well, that was it.

When Lucas was dressed in clean, dark, well-made but neutral clothing, he turned and stared at John one last time, his eyes running over him thoroughly. That fine, dark blond hair that was too silky to hold a knot. The fading black eye, no swelling left, just a bit of a smear underneath it. The determined set of his lips and chin. The small but strong build, neat and sturdy. The steady eyes, searching, seeing, visibly contemplating.

Lucas came forward and wrapped his arms around the smaller man, burying his nose in the warm neck for one last sniff of Dr. John Watson. John hugged him back, clearly fighting to control himself.

“Alright,” John said, as if they’d talked it all over, though they hadn’t.

“Alright,” Lucas agreed in a somewhat huskier, softer voice. He stared down at the floor for a moment, inhaled, and turned away. He looked one last time, and closed the door behind him.

The guards downstairs nodded at him, faces blank. One of them opened the door and Lucas looked at him for a moment, wondering what orders they had pertaining to John, if Lucas did not return. His stomach twisted.

Then he was out on the front steps, hands empty and free, nothing in his pockets but keys, the phone, and a bit of money for transportation and food. The sun was actually shining for once, but the sky was partly cloudy. Lucas looked around and told himself that the less he thought about John right now, the better. Then he set off toward Location 8. It was uncomfortably near the American Embassy.

Forty-five minutes later, Lucas was settling himself at the designated coffee shop. He kept his left hand on the table, so the watch could be seen. In his right hand, he held the phone, expecting at any time to receive a text from Mischa. But none came.

On the television in the corner, Vladimir Putin was visible, and he looked displeased. The noise in the café rendered his words inaudible, but the close-captioning was running briskly.

_Vladimir Putin fiercely derided the U.S. current bombing campaign in Syria during a speech before the Valdai Club, saying, “It is impossible to prevail over terrorism if some of the terrorists are being used as a battering ram to overthrow undesirable regimes.”_

Lucas looked around to see if anyone was entering who might be his contact. Nothing telling yet. He took a sip of his coffee.

_Russia claims the American mission’s focus remains zeroed in on ousting Syrian President Bashar al-Assad by arming and aiding so-called ‘moderate’ terrorist groups —_

Finally, a man came in with a look about him Lucas recognized. It wasn’t that he’d seen the man before. He hadn’t. But he’d seen the type. He came in alone, carrying a briefcase. He was between the ages of 35 and 45, dressed very much as Lucas was. His eyes moved but not his head. His face was expressionless. His movements deliberate. 

Lucas lifted his left hand and he saw the contact look at him and recognize him in the same like-meets-like fashion. The fellow came and sat down at the table with Lucas, sliding the briefcase carefully under the table.

“I’ll be right back,” said the man in an indeterminate Eastern European accent, and Lucas gave a brief nod. He watched the fellow go to the counter, get a simple black coffee, and return to sit down opposite Lucas.

They sipped their coffee for a moment. Over his contact’s shoulder, Lucas could still see Putin on the television.

_… the U.S. holds fast to its narrative that Russia’s presence is merely to aid its defense. Competing versions of precisely what is taking place in Syria — as contradictory as they might be — create lingering doubts about U.S. motives…_

“So. You take the briefcase, this phone, and these keys,” the other fellow said without preamble, placing a cheap cellphone and a single car key before Lucas. “It’s the white Jetta,” he gave a subtle nod to the car parked across the street. “You park across from the Embassy—“ ( _I knew it,_ Lucas thought, stomach sinking) “— and wait for instructions. Someone will call your phone.”

“Call?” Lucas clarified, “Not text?”

“Call,” the man said, not quite making eye contact. Lucas’ stomach sank still further. But he nodded, pretending to accept the message. They waited a bit, so as not to be terribly obvious. The fellow didn’t want to make small talk. They sat at the table together, Lucas watching the television, the other man messing with his cell. Lucas glanced around. It was what everyone was doing. Messing with their cellphones, their Nooks, their iPads and Kindles and iPods. No one seemed to be talking to anyone else. He wondered if this was the new normal. At least they blended in, the two terrorists, he though wryly to himself.

Finally, as if he’d received a signal, the other man lifted his head. “Go now. Take the briefcase,” he said quietly, still not looking directly at Lucas.

Lucas took the case. He picked up the key and the phone, and then gave the man one last chance to say something, warn him, or acknowledge him. But there was nothing.

Turning away, Lucas North made for the door, exited, crossed the street, got into the white Jetta. He inserted and turned the key, sucking in his breath. He half expected it to blow up the minute he started it. But no.

Lucas pulled carefully into traffic and drove the two blocks to the American Embassy. He parked as directed, undid his seatbelt, and waited, sweating. In the distance he saw an approaching line of cars that seemed oddly uniform. The same make and model, four in a row, black, late model… luxurious. Obviously together. Almost parade-like.

In a moment, he understood the scenario, and his part in it. The future flickered through his head in a series of silent images. 

And over-laying it all, the thought of John. If he defied his orders, what happened to John? If he obeyed them and died in the explosion – which was obviously about 30 seconds away – what would happen to John? Either way, he feared they both were doomed.

Lucas hesitated only one more second. Then he placed both cellphones on the briefcase, took off the beautiful silver and blue Submariner watch, and placed it on the briefcase as well. Then he opened the car door, stepped out, closed it, and walked away.


	9. Deja Vu

John sat on the couch fully dressed. Even socks and shoes. He’d put on several layers of clothes, actually, a few white vests from the drawers, Lucas’s red shirt over them, another black shirt of Lucas’s over that. He had cotton pajama pants under the gray sweats, socks and shoes. In his pockets he had every random thing he could pick up around the suite that might be of use… somehow. Matches. A steak knife. The bit of money Lucas gave him (literally just enough for the metro). He’d found an Ace bandage and rolled it nervously around his right hand, wishing he had brass knuckles at least. 

Now he sat staring at the television, watching the late breaking news. An explosion in downtown London, right outside the American Embassy. Several people confirmed dead. The bomber thought dead as well. John knew beyond any shadow of a doubt that he was seeing Lucas’s mission in its full fruition. 

Onscreen, emergency personnel ran hither and yon through the floating smoke, and a news anchorwoman, the wind making unattractive havoc of her hair, squinted into the camera and tried to find new ways of saying that several people were said to have been killed, but no official word, no identification, car bomb, Syrians … something, Russian government had commentary already ( _No doubt_ John thought, feeling sick with anger. Innocent bystanders definitely injured and possibly among the dead.

Bomber believed dead. John closed his eyes for a long moment, trying to just steady his breathing and remember, remember that he had lived on this planet 37 years without Lucas North and he would be just fine, just fine without him again. Just like before. Think who you were a year ago. Just be that again.

John was just standing up, intending to try his luck on the stairs, when the door opened and two blank-faced Russian guards looked at him expectantly. 

Well, wasn’t this a familiar scenario now? Lucas leaves, strangers come and take you away. John followed calmly, his mind focused now on the steak knife in the loose hanging pocket of the gray sweatpants.

 

* * *

 

Lucas rode the Tube, hanging onto the overhead strap, trying not to stare at the people around him, most of whom gazed steadily down at the devices in their hands. They didn’t know. They couldn’t see. They couldn’t see the 8 onion dome tattoos, or any of the others seared into his flesh. They couldn’t see the tiny bits of ash in his hair from the bomb that exploded behind him as he walked away. They couldn’t see any of his scars, external or internal. They couldn’t see the fear in his heart. Or the guilt.

He tried to tell himself that he was not the one who killed that emissary, his body guard, his driver, and a homeless woman who had ventured too near the car. He wasn’t the one who made the bomb, or who called the cheap cellphone and set off the bomb. It would have gone off when that call was made, no matter where it was. Had Lucas walked away, it would have gone off in the café. Had he taken it and driven somewhere else, it would have gone off as he was driving, killing him and anyone driving near him. 

Whoever set it all in motion had ensured that someone, somewhere, would die today in that explosion. Lucas was just a hostage, like the rest of them.

But deep down he knew… he could have at least tried to chuck it down a sewage drain. It would have caused havoc, but perhaps no deaths. Unless he was being watched and the call would have been made the minute he tried to remove it from the car, take it away from the intended target. He didn’t know. 

He didn’t know anything. Did they know he walked away? Had Mischa intended to kill him? Was he even now gathering John up to wreak vengeance, or use him as collateral, or to sell him to the highest bidder? Lucas’s hand was squeezed white on the handle overhead. All around him, people read about the bombing a few miles away on their smartphones. Meanwhile, the man who’d driven the bomb to that location stood silently next to them, swaying on the Tube, brushing against them, tiny bits of ash in his hair.

When he got to the exit nearest the safe house, Lucas let loose of the handle and stepped out the doors, his eyes darting steadily around to see if anyone suddenly lowered a newspaper to follow him. Or got up from a bench. Or stepped away from a kiosk without buying anything. But no… so far…

He trotted up the stairwell and plunged back into daylight, back into pedestrians on sidewalks, back into streetlights on corners. Moving as rapidly as he could without drawing undue attention, Lucas made his way back to the last place he’d seen John.

When he turned down the street onto the row of Georgian homes, he saw the gray Passat and headed for it. Just as he was nearing it, the front door of the safe house opened, and Lucas simply dropped as low as he could, hiding behind the nearest parked car. He watched as the two guards escorted John (still alive!!) down the steps and toward the Passat. John looked calm but alert. Lucas watched as the two men guided him not to the side of the vehicle, but to the back.

John and Lucas both recognized at the same time that the goal was to put John into the boot of the car. One guard popped the hood and the other popped a taser. Lucas sprinted from behind the parked car just as John pulled the steak knife from his pocket and stabbed the nearest guard right in the side of the neck. The other guard tased John instantly, and when the smaller man went limp, the Russian bundled him neatly into the boot and slammed it shut before attending to his dying co-worker.

He never even saw Lucas descend upon him. With one kick and one strike with the heel of the palm, the guard was incapacitated on the ground. And with one more stomp, he was dead. Lucas bent over him, removing the car keys from his clenched fist. Then, glancing around, he decided that John would be comfortable enough in the boot for now. Slipping quickly behind the wheel, Lucas started it up, glanced into the mirror, and drove away, leaving two dead Russians behind him. Nothing in his pocket but enough money for some coffee. And an unconscious hostage in the boot of the car who may or may not hate him now.


End file.
